


hold

by leiascully



Series: I Like You Under My Skin [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Be Nice To Barton, First Date, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson doesn't show anyone his denim on a first (possibly) date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: AUish for the movie, avoiding SPOILERY events  
> A/N: The déluge of feelings in this household continues, hence the fic continues. I am a one-woman campaign to Be Nice To Barton in a world full of hurt(/comfort). So I guess there will be more.  
> Disclaimer: _The Avengers_ and all related characters are property of Marvel and Joss Whedon. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Coulson has high-class taste in bars. Clint really shouldn't be surprised - it goes with the suits - but he's used to dive bars, smoky dingy places with shadowy corners and scuffed pool tables. Those are what Nat likes, so that's usually where they go. He's never been out for drinks with Coulson before. They've had a few glasses together, but usually in the office. Someone always has something in their drawer. Clint is always glad to liberate a bottle or two. Saving the world (again) is a fair trade for booze (again), especially for Coulson, who's always in the wings and never has his name on the marquee. At least Clint knows the list of Coulson's good deeds, and he does his best to spread the accolade.

This place is almost quiet, which is strange for a bar, and it's clean, and the lights are strong enough that you can actually see the person you're talking to. It's strange to talk to Coulson and actually look him in the face. Clint is used to the earpieces now. It isn't like before the Avengers Initiative, well, initiated, when it was usually just them and the S.H.I.E.L.D. muscle. They talked more then, face to face. They talk a lot now, but Clint almost feels like Coulson is someone he's been flirting with on the internet. In person, it's different.

"This is not the kind of bar I usually go to," he says, just to make conversation.

"No?" Coulson asks. He rattles the ice cubes in his vodka tonic.

"Nat likes the ones where you need a decon shower to get the reek off," Clint says, taking a swallow of whiskey and Sprite. 

"Ah," Coulson says. "You and Natasha - something there, then?"

"Oh, God, no," Clint says. "I'm not her type."

"We're aware of the effects of post-mission adrenaline," Coulson prompts him.

"Yeah, well, who isn't," Clint says, feeling his face redden a little. "But me and Nat - that's nothing. We fooled around a couple of times, all that post-mission adrenaline, but like I said, I'm not her type, and she's _definitely_ not mine. She's my best friend, but there's nothing more to it."

"Mmm," Coulson says. Clint thinks that anyone who hadn't spent countless hours briefing for missions and going on missions and debriefing from missions with Coulson wouldn't hear the quiet satisfaction in Coulson's voice, but then again, he's not willing to share the privilege, either. There's definitely a tone in Coulson's voice, though. Maybe Clint's shot in the dark will find its mark after all. 

"This is nice," Coulson says. "Quiet."

"Quite," Clint says. 

"We don't get a lot of that anymore," Coulson says.

"No," Clint agrees. "Suddenly everybody wants to take us to the dance. I guess we were just what the doctor ordered. Who knew the world still needed caped crusaders?"

"I've never known you to wear a cape," Coulson says slyly, raising an eyebrow. "Do you need me to requisition one for you? I know a guy."

"Why, boss," Clint asks, raising his glass, "do you think it'd be hot?"

"Depends on the material," Coulson deadpans. "It's all about the drape."

Coulson's face is so serious that Clint can't honestly tell if he's flirting or if he has Opinions on fabric. Suddenly Clint feels a little too casual in his jeans and the button down he threw on post-shower. He's slouching, comfortable on his barstool, and Coulson's still in his suit with his spine straight. The light gleams quietly off his cuff links - they're understated but clearly quality, much like Coulson himself. Come to think of it, Clint's not sure he's ever seen Coulson _not_ wearing a suit. He can't even call to mind any times Coulson might have shed his jacket. It's all suit, all the time - now there's a problem to unravel.

"Do you always wear a suit when you're off-duty?" Clint asks.

"Of course not," Coulson says. "I own denim."

"I think I'm going to have to make you prove that one of these days," Clint says.

Coulson actually smiles at that. A real, human smile, not just his federal-issue pokerface smirk, and oh, yes, Clint's shot in the dark has found its mark, lodged firmly between his own ribs. Something inside him gives way in a hot rush. He smiles back at Coulson, who gives him one last grin and signals for another round. Clint gulps the rest of his drink, but it doesn't cool him off any.

Damn. He's got a thing for his boss. 

He thinks about that for a second. Really, he's _had_ a thing for his boss for a couple of years, if he's underestimating generously, but he's facing up to it now. Hard not to, when Coulson's face is so close. At least it isn't Fury. Fury probably couldn't ever love anything but secrets, and Clint doesn't like playing second fiddle. He's too good with a bow for that. And Coulson's definitely his type - compact, capable, hot as all hell if you could get him to loosen up for half a second. Clint considers, briefly, a few techniques he might use to get Coulson loose and suddenly his jeans aren't that comfortable.

Coulson's phone buzzes and Clint watches him answer it as the bartender slides another couple of drinks across the bar. Coulson is sexily efficient as he answers the question of whichever moron he's saving the ass of tonight, because he's Phil Coulson, Agent Supreme, and Clint realizes just how long this has been coming, that he even thinks the phrase "sexily efficient". There's no way out of this situation. Clint's okay with that, really.

An actual thing. He's known for a long time that there was a possibility of a thing, but he didn't often have the leisure to consider it. At least, he didn't let himself have the leisure - they had a lot of downtime that he specificially didn't use to think about his boss. A lot of hours in cars, shifting in his seat and gazing out the window. A lot of hours writing sit reps and doing paperwork on opposite sides of a desk. And then there was that night in the rain, staring down the shaft of his arrow at Thor and every muscle in his body waiting for Coulson's command. He should have realized it then, really realized, but he went on with his life while his body was still waiting to be loosed.

"Sorry about that," Coulson says after he hangs up.

Clint shrugs. "Duty calls."

"It tends to," Coulson agrees. He holds down the button on his phone until it turns off. "Now it won't."

A shiver goes through Clint. "Big step, boss."

"It was about time," Coulson says. "I asked you out here. You deserve my full attention."

"Cheers," Clint says, his mouth dry. He clinks his glass against Coulson's and they both drink. Coulson is _definitely_ flirting now. He's treating Clint to a hint of his interrogation stare, the one they both know nearly always eventually gets Coulson what he wants. Clint is absolutely okay with that. It's a tense look, a hot look. Post-mission adrenaline hits everybody, he guesses, even when they're not in the thick of it.

"Natasha's a lovely woman," Coulson says, endearingly and pointedly casual about it. "Not your type, you said."

"You seem interested in the subject," Clint teases. 

"You brought her in," Coulson says. "I know what that tends to entail."

"I tend to go for the ones with more testosterone," Clint tells him. "Nothing hotter than a good Y chromosome."

"I see," Coulson says, just as blank as Clint could have hoped.

"You?" Clint nudges.

Coulson clears his throat. "That's not exactly the way I would have put it."

Clint leans closer. "This I've got to hear."

Coulson toys with his cufflinks and then looks straight at Clint. "I'm gay."

Clint stays exactly where he is. "I should have expected that."

"You should have, Barton," Coulson says. He smirks a little. "I'm not frequently prone to metaphorical language."

Clint acknowledges that with a quirk of his lips. "I like that, boss. You ask me on a date and you won't even call me by my first name."

"Before I address the hypocrisy of that statement, this isn't a date," Coulson says.

Clint leans back a little on his stool, really enjoying himself now. "Of course not. What is it? Recon? Surveillance?"

"Intelligence gathering," Coulson murmurs. "I admit I was hoping it might be the precursor to a date, but I didn't want to presume."

"Permission to presume granted, sir," Clint tells him.

"Good," Coulson says, and there's a whole new twinkle in his eye this time when he smiles. Clint basks in it like summer heat. His body is taut with a whole new anticipation now. 

They have a few more rounds, talking a little but mostly just soaking each other in. Clint lets his knee brush Coulson's under the bar and Coulson casually nudges him back. Eventually Clint checks his watch, stretching and groaning a little. "I should probably get back to headquarters," he says. "Nat should have the boys under the table by now. I'll probably have to peel her off Rogers. Poor guy doesn't know what he's in for."

"There are worse fates," Coulson says, turning on his phone, which immediately buzzes frantically. He sighs. "Get us a cab?"

"You don't have to cover the tab," Clint tells him. "They give us a stipend, you know, in addition to the room and board and doctors who don't ask too many questions and all the uniforms we can wear out."

Coulson smiles. "I know. My date, my treat."

"I'll get the next time, then," Clint says, warm all through.

They sit closer than is strictly necessary in the cab. The backs of their fingers make contact a few times and it sends a little frisson through Clint every time. Fortunately, he's got plenty of practice in being steady when fireworks are going on around him. Clint is distracted in the elevator by thoughts of all the things that could happen in an elevator, and he catches Coulson's amused eye on him and winks. 

Coulson grabs him before he goes back into the lounge, startlingly smooth, hooking one finger through Clint's beltloop to pull him close for a gentle kiss. His other hand smoothes along the line of Clint's spine, the touch excruciatingly light so that Clint wants to lean backwards and forwards all at once, feeling the pressure of Coulson's body everywhere. He cups his hands around Coulson's face and kisses him back firmly.

"Easy," Coulson says after a minute, just breathing the word. "Save something for the second date."

"When are you going to show me your denim?" Clint mumbles, dizzy with desire. He's never gotten vertigo from a high place or shaky footing, but he's getting it now.

"Not tonight," Coulson says. "Soon. I don't put out on the first date." His smile is crooked this time, but no less charming or genuine than his grin. He tugs Clint forward and kisses him again.

"Tomorrow?" Clint demands.

Coulson kisses him one more time and traces a few inches of the waist of Clint's jeans where they dip over his hipbone. "Depends on how much saving the world needs."

"The world can wait," Clint says, but Coulson's phone buzzes. 

"I wish it could," he says, looking wistful, and answers. 

Clint watches him stride off down the hall and then makes his way back into the lounge. A whiff of cheese and pepperoni hits him and suddenly he's starving - they never did eat, did they. Nat is sitting very close to Rogers, but Rogers seems pretty pleased about the whole thing so far, and instead of throwing up, Tony and Banner are stuffing down slices of pizza and arguing about the design for a better beer bong. 

"Barton," Rogers calls, "you lost two pieces and you need to king me."

"Sorry, buddy," Clint tells him. "I forgot we were playing." He wonders if Steve Rogers is the only man alive who cares about checkers enough not to cheat when his opponent wanders off for several hours. 

"Enjoy yourself?" Nat asks, raising an eyebrow in a way that promises him he'll tell her everything later or he'll suffer, but he's used to that look. 

"About as much as you did, I'm guessing," he says. He flops on the couch next to her, dragging a pizza box over. She punches him lightly on the shoulder and he grins. "You know what, though? Tomorrow's gonna be even better."

"I think you're right," Rogers says thoughtfully.

"Oh, hey, Barton, you're back," Tony says. "Will you call my guy and get him to send over a case of Chimay? The white, preferably. I mean, you have to be able to swallow it pretty fast for this to work."

Banner's just shaking his head. "God, they asked for heroes and they got us. What kind of madman funnels Chimay?"

"I think we're doin' okay," Clint says. "World's still here. We're still here. I think we're doing just fine."

"Even I'll drink to that," Rogers says.

"All right," Tony agrees. "But we'll do it through the best engineered damn beer bong the world has ever seen."

Everybody groans. Clint's phone buzzes in his pocket.

"Tomorrow," says the text from Coulson. "If you're lucky, I'll show you my denim."

Clint grins to himself and slides the phone back into his jeans before Nat can ask him about it. "Bring it on, Iron Man. I feel lucky."


End file.
